Tag Archives: postaday2011

Thumbs Up

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Oh sure, I appreciate an intelligent well-made documentary. But I do need to suit up for the experience since I can’t shake the feeling that right after the credits there’s going to be a pop quiz.

“Want to go to Waste Land? It’s playing at the Tivoli at 4:00, movie candy is still on sale at Apple Mart, 10 for $10.”

“Yeah, but do they have Junior Mints and Milk Duds?”

“I think so.”

So here I am on my way to see an academy award nominated documentary that took three years to make about an artist who created portraits of people whose daily jobs were to find, sort and haul reusable trash from the world’s largest garbage dump. “Hmmm, really?” 

Vik Muniz is an internationally known artist who photographs images he creates from unusual art materials: diamonds, string, chocolate syrup, sugar and garbage of all sorts. A native of Brazil, he knows about the huge landfill near Rio and wants to tell the story of the squatter community who depend upon it.  

A core part of the Waste Land project is to involve the subjects in making their own portraits; proceeds from the finished work go back to the community. 

The results are staggering.

Six people are chosen from the thousands of catadores, a self-designated term that means pickers of recyclable materials. The team sets up a workshop in an empty warehouse. As the artwork emerges, each of the characters emerge as well. 

Their combined stories are a powerful testimonial for humanity. Before the movie ends, you’ll want to stand up, raise your fists in the air and yell, Yeah! Go for it! Go for it! as if they are old friends.

Hallelujah

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Sig insists on putting peanut butter in the refrigerator. And I really hate that. It is some kind of germ-phobe thing as if peanuts are salmonella carriers. (If they are, fine — just don’t share it with me. Please.) 

My point, thank you very much, is that peanut butter is born to be spreadable. Yes, spreadability is an intrinsic positive attribute of even the least expensive brand.   

Lower the knife to the jar and with one deft motion dip-and-swipe into the peanut butter. There is no resistance, no struggle, no hefty lifting. The loaded knife comes up triumphantly headed toward the bread. 

Once there it hovers as long as you like until a singular swoop-and-swipe motion completes the exchange.  In quick order, lunch is made and I am out the door.

I bought two jars of peanut butter today, only one went in the refrigerator. Free at last.

My best side

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I googled “ideal bathroom lighting” this morning.  A leaky pipe is leading to new fixtures, which means repairing the ceramic tile, which means repainting the walls, which means re-doing the trim, which means the 1917 light fixtures need to go.

The ideal is to have lights on either side of the mirror preferably centered around eye height and between 32 – 36 inches apart. Even, shadowless light means you are less likely to look as if you are off your feed, so to speak. (It’s okay if you have a fixture across the top, just so it lights up the entire area and has translucent glass.)

Whew. Dodged that bullet. I would have always thought it was the wrong color of paint.

Oscar Post Mortem

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Okay, I love the Academy Awards, always have, probably always will. I enjoy movies and love to compare my choices against others’ picks and talk about why or why not. It is a kick to see what everyone is wearing; and, I look forward to a show put on by people whose business is show business.

But for crying out loud, get Jeff Bridges and Sandra Bullock to host next year!

As is tradition, the 2010 winners gave out the best actress and actor awards last night. And if they were acting as the perfectly comfortable, articulate and gracious presenters — then they nailed it. 

You could see it as the camera lingered on the nominees’ faces when they heard their names.  Most sat up straighter and tried not to grin their faces off as Bridges and Bullock  reminded them why they were nominated. No matter that a script writer may have helped. It was done right.

If I was in the power seat, I would put my A-Team in this show, it’s no place for rookies. Afterall, performance is what Oscar celebrates.

Just Kids

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The third time she meets him, she asks him his name. He tells her it is Bob. She says, “You don’t seem like a Bob to me. Is it okay if I call you Robert?” It is 1967 and for the next 7 years, Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe are pretty much inseparable. 

Smith tells their story in Just Kids, a fascinating account of loyalty, joy, love and coming of age for two extraordinarily gifted people who at the heart of it are surprisingly ordinary. But it is Smith’s elegant prose, honest reflection and generous spirit that elevates this book to a must read and a National Book Club Winner in 2010.

Just Kids is gently flattering in the way that a best friend who knows you better than anyone would write a book about you. It’s the depth of their relationship that makes Smith’s book a virtual how-to on friendship: listen, praise, defend, accept, laugh, trust and finally release.

It’s no surprise to discover that it’s Patti who encourages Robert to take pictures, and Robert who tells Patti to turn her poems into songs. That’s the kind of impact good friends end up having on one another.   

It’s charming to get to eavesdrop on this couple. How they stand back, look at their work and say, “It’s genius, isn’t it?” “Yes,” the other answers, “It is.” While you know the end of their story, you learn that in the beginning Patti drinks Nescafe and Robert loves Mallomars and their favorite dinner is grilled cheese on rye with tomatoes and a chocolate malt.

New York in the sixties is a fine time to be a young and aspiring hippie.  Smith evokes the era without trumpeting its excesses at the expense of a more important tale. Though part of the book’s appeal is definitely the front row seat to people most just read about. How ’bout dropping by your regular bar and Janis, Jimi and Gracie are tossing back a few? Pretty heady stuff. 

In March, 1989, Patti gets the phone call she has been expecting. After being diagnosed with AIDS in 1986, Robert Mapplethorpe dies in his loft in New York; he is 43. The last time they speak, he asks, “Will you write our story?” She says, “I will do it.” Just Kids is how she kept her promise.

Been Gone?

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My sister’s dog, Pablo, pretty much goes nuts when ever she comes into the house even from short trips like say to the garage.  But he is after all, a dog. I’m no Cesar Milan, but I think the average dog really doesn’t get into game-playing other than fetch.  

Cats on the other hand are another story.

After being gone for longer than a month, are they at the front door when we wrestle it open with armloads of luggage? Oh, noooo.  We have just about emptied the car before they show up.  They sit on the top landing looking down, casually grooming themselves. 

When we spy them we excitedly call their names; they just stare at us and remain where they sit.  It is as if the biggest among them is saying, “Wha— you two have been gone?! OMG, you’re kiddin’ us. Who ‘da guessed?”

They stay strong for a good hour or so; I don’t know which one says it’s time to cave.  But all of a sudden, the attitudes are gone and with plaintive meows, they clamor to make sure we have not forgotten them.  That’s when we know we’re home.

Befriended

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We watched the Cadillac come up to the public bathroom from where we were sitting in the park’s shelter. The driver got out and went around to help the passenger get out. He was unsteady and leaned on her. She slammed the car door shut and together they made their way to the Men’s. 

Sig said, “That’s probably us if we last another 10 to 15 years.” 

“Ten years? Well, I don’t think so. Maybe You but not me.” We bickered back and forth about our widely different outlooks on the future when the woman suddenly started yelling.   

“Damnit! Shit! Damnit! Oh, Damnit.” She was walking around the car waving her arms. “I locked my keys in there, I locked my keys in there. I’ve never done that ever!”

I took my cell phone and we went over to see what we could do. 

Well, you see, Edna and Ed were heading home from the hospital after Ed’s knee replacement. They had OnStar service on their car but the number routed them to an automated message center. So Sig and Edna take off to find a mechanic. Ed and I have a nice chat about the usual – surgery advancements, cell phones, retirement, Colorado in the summer.  

Sig and Edna return and help is on the way. Just before we leave — they tell us about their really good friends in Kansas City; they own a big funeral home. If we ever need anything, just mention their name.

Think about it, before Facebook this is how it happened.

Daveee, Daveee Crockett

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It is comforting to me to learn that the faux fur Davy Crockett’s coonskin hat is still the top souvenir sold at the Alamo. I picture them on 5 and 6 year olds with buzz haircuts and round faces.

I think that’s because my 2 brothers rocked those buzz haircuts growing up and loved their fake fur hats. Myself? I always preferred the long bladed plastic bowie-knife. Which is probably why they occasionally paid attention when I bossed them around.